Scathach slowly turned her hand in the air. The runes surrounding Ignisar responded as if they were hearts beating outside their chests—out of sync, crazed, pulsing with the hunger for a truth hidden for ages. With each vibration, they pierced deeper into his mind, invading not with physical brutality, but with the surgical precision of one who knows where every crack in the soul lies.
Ignisar screamed. Not like a warrior. Not like a dragon. But like a child lost in an endless nightmare. A nightmare that, with each passing second, became more real than reality itself.
He saw everything.
His deformed childhood, dragged by the horns before the draconic council. His mother's voice begging for his life before being sacrificed as an example. The indifferent faces of the elders, each marked by centuries of arrogance, now turning into smiling, distorted masks, mocking his helplessness.
"This... this isn't real!" he choked, trying to close his eyes.
